


but i want for you this: that you are well

by cacowhistle



Series: dsmp anthology [4]
Category: Dream SMP - Fandom, Minecraft (Video Game)
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Family Dynamics, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, Post-Canon, mostly just soft content with a little bit of hurt/comfort tbh
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-24
Updated: 2021-02-24
Packaged: 2021-03-14 09:41:38
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,800
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29665362
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cacowhistle/pseuds/cacowhistle
Summary: It’s a soft summer afternoon, just bordering on sunset as Wilbur and Tommy sit under a tree just up the hill from the ruins of L’manburg. It’s quiet and peaceful, despite the way Tommy is griping at him. It’s just a bit too warm for a sweater and a beanie, but Wilbur is a man of fashion, not of function, so he sits and sweats in too-warm clothes as Tommy prattles on and on.“You’re a stupid child,” Wilbur interrupts, teasing, plucking at the strings of his guitar.“That can’t be your defense for everything.” Tommy’s voice is flat and irritated from where he lounges on the tree branch above him. “That’s not even fucking related. You’re an asshole. I’m not the one who forgot we were supposed to help Niki today.”or;wilbur comes to some realizations about tommy and all the ways he's changed, after everything is said and done. he makes some attempts to help him heal, in the ways he knows how.can be read as a standalone fic.
Relationships: Wilbur Soot & TommyInnit
Series: dsmp anthology [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2168076
Comments: 22
Kudos: 198





	but i want for you this: that you are well

It’s a soft summer afternoon, just bordering on sunset as Wilbur and Tommy sit under a tree just up the hill from the ruins of L’manburg. It’s quiet and peaceful, despite the way Tommy is griping at him. It’s just a bit too warm for a sweater and a beanie, but Wilbur is a man of fashion, not of function, so he sits and sweats in too-warm clothes as Tommy prattles on and on.

“You’re a stupid child,” Wilbur interrupts, teasing, plucking at the strings of his guitar.

“That can’t be your defense for everything.” Tommy’s voice is flat and irritated from where he lounges on the tree branch above him. “That’s not even fucking related. You’re an asshole. I’m not the one who forgot we were supposed to help Niki today.”

“Still gonna blame it on you,” Wilbur says, smugly, and Tommy sighs.

“Fine, whatever, add it to the fucking list.”

… something about that makes Wilbur’s heart sink, dread settling in his gut like a stone sinking to the bottom of a river before it can be swept away by the current. It _sounds_ like it’s supposed to come off jokingly, but something about it is… off. He pauses in his composing, tipping his head back to peer up at Tommy.

“Tommy, I was kidding.”

The kid blinks down at him owlishly, raising his eyebrows. “... I know? I didn’t take it personally, big man.”

Has it always been this difficult to tell if he’s lying?

Wilbur is unsettled, suddenly, by the fact that he can’t read Tommy as well as he used to be able to. Emotions used to paint themselves on his face, open and obvious for all the world to see. And when they didn’t, Wilbur would still be able to _tell_ \--the guilty flick of eyes towards the ground, an angry tremble in the fingers. Shaky exhales, the slightest crinkle of the nose--Wilbur could just _tell._ Now, looking at Tommy, he has no idea what to think.

… when did that _happen?_

He smiles, thinly, reaching up to swat at Tommy’s wrist to knock him off-balance. “If you say so.”

Tommy shrieks in that affronted way of his, and Wilbur snorts as he swings down from the tree branch--only to get kicked right in the chest and knocked flat onto his back. He groans, pebbles digging into his spine, and sits up with a huff, glaring at Tommy.

“Ow,” he says, and Tommy just grins.

“Sorry,” he says, obviously not sorry. “I’m gonna go find Tubbo. Call if you need anything, yeah?”

“Yeah,” Wilbur echoes, watching Tommy flee down the hill.

He can’t shake the sense that he’s missing something.

* * *

“I think something’s going on with Tommy,” Wilbur says, closing Niki and Puffy’s front door behind him.

Puffy, halfway through making herself a cup of coffee, raises an eyebrow at the rude interruption to her routine. Truth be told, Wilbur was hoping to find Niki here, but Puffy is probably more suited for these types of conversations. She stirs her coffee, then gestures at a chair at the kitchen table with her spoon, before moving to pull out another mug.

“Coffee or tea?” She asks.

“Tea.” Wilbur drums his fingers against the table as he sinks into a chair, unable to stop fidgeting.

Puffy puts the kettle on and squints at the inside of the cabinet door before crossing to the window box, snipping off a bit of lavender and mint. Wilbur watches her put the tea bag together, idly, mind quieting a bit as the smell of it hits him. It reminds him of Techno and Phil, oddly enough, and their little cabin in one of Phil’s subworlds--the hardcore one, where they grew up.

Gods. When did things change so drastically? None of them are the same as they were growing up in that house--the thought of that leaves Wilbur’s chest aching.

“I can feel you overthinking stuff from here.” Puffy sounds faintly amused. “Take a breather, dude.”

Wilbur’s face heats up with embarrassment--is he really so obvious? He presses a cool hand against his cheek for a moment before smoothing it back over his beanie, adjusting the way it sits. He just can’t sit _still,_ his mind is far too loud. He’s… he’s just worried. Something is wrong, he just doesn’t know what it is. He takes a deep breath regardless, surprised at the satisfaction he feels at the pleased look on Puffy’s face.

In the time it takes for the tea to be made, no words are spoken. Puffy works deliberately, taking care as she prepares the drink. He thinks she might be giving him time to gather his thoughts, offering him the chance to speak at his own pace. He doesn’t feel _rushed,_ and for some reason, that’s more reassuring than anything else about the house he currently sits in.

Puffy presents him with the mug. “Do you usually add anything to it?”

Wilbur takes it into both hands, letting it warm cold, shaky fingers. “Do you have any honey?”

She smiles, crossing the kitchen before presenting him with the bottle, and he takes two heaping spoonfuls of it--then a third. He can picture Phil’s mock horror at the amount he puts in, and it teases a smile out of him. Puffy puts it away, pausing by the open cabinet and scribbling something on the inside of it with a pen, before closing it and crossing back to the table.

Wilbur raises his eyebrows as she sinks into a chair. “What was that?”

“Niki and I keep a list of everyone’s favorite drinks,” she says, taking a sip of her coffee. “We’ve got a post-it stuck to the cabinet door.”

Something about the sentiment gives him pause. There’s a warmth in his chest that he thinks might be gratitude, adoration, salvation of some kind. Such a small detail that the two of them took note of and wrote down, when did they do that? Did it happen before he was resurrected? Did they think of him even then, when he was nothing more than a grey, washed out echo of a person?

Has there always been lavender and mint stocked away, just in case?

Wilbur decides that he is _not_ about to start crying. He sniffs, brushes tears away before they can even really fall. “That’s… sweet,” he says, softly.

Puffy just smiles, a touch sad. “Someone needed to start being kind around here.”

He hums his agreement, and the two of them sit in peaceful silence for a minute or two. Puffy gazes out the window, at the front yard. There’s a small dirt road that goes by, forest thinning out into the hillsides that eventually lead down to the crater remains of L’manburg. Wilbur knows a river runs by out back, and that just beyond it lies the remains of Pogtopia. He doesn’t frequent either gravesite--he sort of avoids them like the plague, truth be told.

Out here, though, he doesn’t quite think of them as the center of his trauma. They’re just places, just like this house is just a place. Places that hurt him, but all places have the capacity to hurt.

He feels safe, here, safe to think these sorts of thoughts. Part of that is Puffy’s presence, he’s sure. She’s always had that kindness, that security about her.

“So,” she says, gentle, “what’s going on with Tommy?”

Wilbur sighs, staring down into his tea. “I don’t know. I just--it _feels_ like he’s hurt, y’know, and I just can’t figure out what it is.” He looks up at her. “I used to be able to just _tell_ what he was feeling. We were… we _are_ like, y’know, brothers, or… something.”

Puffy looks amused. She looks sad, actually, but there’s an amused twist to the corner of her lips, a small little uptick. It breaks into more of a smile after a moment.

“He’s not really the touchy-feely sort, is he?”

“He’s the cagiest little fuck I know.” Wilbur pauses, frowning. “... actually, no, that would be Tubbo.”

Puffy snorts. “God, you can say that again.”

Wilbur lifts his mug. “Cheers to having cagey little fucks for younger brothers?”

She barks a laugh, at that, lifting her mug to clink it against his. “Cheers, I’ll drink to that.”

Wilbur smiles, taking a sip of the tea before lowering the mug to rest in both hands again. “I just… I don’t really know how to approach him about it, I guess? He’s never really responded well to just being asked how he’s feeling.”

There’s a few beats of silence that drag on just a bit too long for comfort. Wilbur frowns, slightly, at the way Puffy looks at him, then. She looks… a little startled, mostly sad--maybe pitying is the proper word. Regardless, he doesn’t think he likes it.

“You’d be surprised,” she says, softly, “at how much he’s changed.”

… he has changed. Wilbur knows he’s changed, this Tommy is not the same as the one that helped found L’manburg. This Tommy is quieter, kinder, softer around the edges, a sword that has been filed down until the edges are too dull to properly cut flesh. This Tommy feels _older,_ so much older. It’s like ten years have passed in the last seven, eight months.

“Oh,” is all he can say, voice soft. Something like horror (or maybe grief, he thinks) rises in his chest at the thought of how much his little brother has been changed by the things he has been through.

“Talk to him,” Puffy says, gentle, resting her hand on Wilbur’s wrist.

He swallows, throat feeling painfully dry despite the mug in front of him. “Okay.”

She gives his hand a gentle squeeze, before pulling away and clearing their mugs. “You’re welcome here any time, okay?”

Wilbur can feel the tell-tale sign of tears beginning to build behind his eyes, a gentle burn as his vision begins to blur. He almost wishes he were a ghost again, if only so he could become intangible, invisible, to phase through the floor or the wall and make an easy escape.

“Thank you for the tea,” he murmurs instead, and disappears out the door.

* * *

It’s begun to drizzle, as Wilbur makes his way up the hill towards Tommy’s house. The rain is cool against his skin, and while the droplets splatter his glasses and make it practically impossible to see, Wilbur pauses in the middle of the prime path to appreciate it. He tips his head back, squints up at the clouds, letting the rainfall hit him, soak him through.

_What a lovely thing,_ he thinks to himself, _to be able to feel the rain without it burning._

He will never take the weather for granted again, he decides, pulling his beanie down a little more snugly to keep his head warm and most of his hair from getting wet. He unlocks the door to Tommy’s place with his copy of the key, wiping mud off of his boots at the front door as he ducks in out of the rain.

There’s the gentle sound of Mellohi coming from the other room, the jukebox turned low. Wilbur raises an eyebrow, though he can’t see Tommy through the doorway from where he’s standing.

“M’home,” he calls out to the quiet house, and he hears the shifting of fabric--the couch, probably, the one they stole from the ruins of Philza’s house in L’manburg.

He hears light, nervous footsteps--the telltale uncertain gait of Tommy, these days. He’s always prowling around like he’s afraid to be heard. Wilbur’s grown used to it. The kid appears in the doorway, frowning slightly as he looks Wilbur up and down.

“You’re getting water on the floor.”

“The floor is basically dirt anyways,” Wilbur deadpans, pulling off his sweater and reaching for a hoodie hanging by the door.

“If you’re staying in _my_ house the least you could do is not be a _prick_ about it,” Tommy snaps right back, and Wilbur huffs as he reaches out to ruffle his hair.

“You know I love you and your shitty house,” Wilbur teases, doing his best to keep his voice gentle.

He doesn’t expect Tommy to freeze under his hand, eyes wide. He shakes his head, knocking Wilbur’s hand away. “Don’t you go all fuckin’... touchy feely on me.”

Wilbur frowns as Tommy turns and heads further back into the house, trailing after him.

“Is something wrong, man? You’ve been acting weird all day.”

Tommy growls in response, a rumble in the back of his throat that almost reminds Wilbur of Technoblade. He hesitates in the doorway as Tommy flops down on the couch with a huff.

“No,” he says, entirely unconvincing, “I’m fine.”

“You,” Wilbur says, leaning over him and reaching out to boop him on the nose, “are an awful liar.”

That earns a scowl. Tommy pushes against his forehead, shoving him away. “I don’t want to talk about it.”

“Tommy,” Wilbur whines, “I want to help.”

Tommy laughs, at that. It’s not his familiar, shrieking cackle--it’s a soft snort, that breaks into semi-hysterical giggles before he quiets them with his hands over his mouth. Wilbur tenses at the sight.

Tommy breathes out a sigh. “That’s a fuckin’ first.”

Okay, well, that… stings, a bit, but Wilbur supposes it’s fair. He sighs, sinking down on the couch next to the kid he’s come to see as a brother, and holds his arms out to offer a hug.

Tommy hesitates. Wilbur is afraid he isn’t going to take it, for a moment, but then he’s got his arms full of a sniffling sixteen year old and he wraps them around him so tightly so that nothing will hurt him, here.

“What’s goin’ on, Tommy?” He smooths the hair back from Tommy’s face, rubbing lazy circles into his back.

“I just--” his voice cracks, and Wilbur’s heart breaks a bit. “I dunno. I’m tired. And _sad.”_

“Well, what’re you sad _about,_ man?” Wilbur raises his eyebrows, pulling back to get a proper look at Tommy’s face.

He doesn’t quite meet Wilbur’s eyes. “... people don’t hate me, right?”

Wilbur’s grip tightens, voice going stern. “No, of course not. Who the fuck gave you that idea?”

Tommy is silent. Wilbur’s stomach sinks.

“Tommy,” he says, quietly, “has anyone been telling you that?”

“No,” Tommy grumbles, sinking further into Wilbur’s hold. “I just… it feels like people still blame me for… I’unno, everything?”

“Tommy,” Wilbur says, sitting back, “what the fuck is there to blame you for? L’manburg? That was me. Doomsday? That was Techno and Phil and Dream. Literally anything else was _probably_ Dream, there’s not much you’re at fault for, man.”

“I hurt people,” Tommy sniffs, rubbing at his eyes with a frustrated growl. “I betrayed Techno and Tubbo and I--I burned down George’s house, and if I had just done better L’manburg wouldn’t have gotten all… _fucked up,_ and I just…”

Wilbur sighs, resting his hands on Tommy’s shoulders. “Tommy. Listen to me, okay? We’ve all done some _shit_ things. We were put in charge of things greater than us, and that was a bloody mistake. We are not people meant to rule the world, Tommy. We deserve peace despite that, y’know?”

He hums, pulling Tommy in to rest his chin on top of his head. “We’re just some mistakes, Tommy. And that’s not a bad thing.”

Tommy is quiet, face buried in Wilbur’s chest, hands gripping the back of his hoodie. Wilbur can hear the sniffling, knows there are probably tears beginning to stain his hoodie, and doesn’t quite mind it. As long as he can keep Tommy safe and happy and content, that’s all he can ask for, isn’t it?

“Nobody hates you, Tommy.” He runs his fingers through his hair, all gentlesweet and soft.

“Promise?”

Wilbur smiles into Tommy’s hair, sadly, pets back the blonde fluff.

“I promise,” he murmurs, and he means it this time.

* * *

“Techno,” Wilbur says, slamming the door open, “I need your help.”

Techno closes his eyes and lets out a long, exhausted breath, slowly setting his sword down. “You need to stop doing that.”

“Sorry,” Wilbur says, not sounding very sorry.

Techno raises his eyebrows. “What do you need?”

“I want to make something for Tommy.” Wilbur makes his voice pleading. “I just don’t know how to sew a stuffed animal.”

“It can’t be _that_ much different than making a flag, Wilbur.” Techno is putting his books away regardless. “What do you want it to be?”

Wilbur remembers days spent at the kitchen table in their cabin in Phil’s world, the two of them watching with wide eyes as Phil made them both little plushies. A pig for Techno, an orca for Wilbur. Techno had demanded he be taught how to do it. Wilbur had been more interested in writing his songs and playing his guitar, at the time.

Now, he is the one seated at the kitchen table being taught. At some point, they call Niki over to help when Techno forgets what he’s doing halfway through. It’s a long process, and there are a few defective cows that Techno puts aside to use as dog toys. By the time the sun’s come up in the morning, Niki is asleep on the couch and Techno dozing at the table, Wilbur making the finishing few stitches on a shoddy, but still serviceable little stuffed cow.

It’s a bit messy--the stitching isn’t the best, and the buttons for the eyes are mismatched.

Looking at the little doll in his hands, though, Wilbur knows that it’s perfect.

(And if Tommy cries when Wilbur gives it to him, well, nobody needs to know that now, do they?

He names it Henry. Wilbur wouldn’t have expected anything else.)

* * *

_[WilburSoot] hey where are you?_

_[TommyInnit] Snowchester_

_[TommyInnit] Why_

_[WilburSoot] just wanna talk_

Wilbur pauses. He can practically feel Tommy’s dread, and he’s nowhere near him.

_[WilburSoot] youre not in trouble dont start panicking_

_[TommyInnit] Fucking christ start with that next time_

_[WilburSoot] sorry lmao_

It’s about an hour’s walk and boat ride to get to Snowchester (he doesn’t feel like bothering with the soul sand highway), so Wilbur bundles himself up in his sweater and his coat and a beanie for good measure, and makes the trip. By the time he gets there, the sun is hovering just over the horizon, on the verge of setting. He and Tommy may have to stay the night, but Tubbo always leaves the door open for them, thankfully.

Wilbur ties his boat to the docks when he arrives, stepping onto the snowdusted wooden planks and meandering into the small settlement. The lights in Tubbo’s cabin are on, he can hear the faint sound of Cat, muffled behind the closed windows.

He comes up to the front door and knocks, the old short-three signal that they used to use back in Pogtopia. There’s a pause, voices behind the door faltering so that only the music can be heard, before the rapid patter of feet. The door swings open, and Tubbo beams at Wilbur.

“Hey Wilbur!” He peers past him, “Tommy said you were coming over. Are you guys gonna stay the night?”

Wilbur shrugs. “Maybe. Not sure yet. Can I come in?”

Tubbo steps back from the door. “Course, big man.”

He shuts the door behind him as he steps in, shutting out the icy cold air. Tommy waves from where he’s splayed out on the wooden floor, one of Tubbo’s dogs seated square on his chest.

“You seem to be trapped,” Wilbur observes, raising his eyebrows as he looks down at Tommy over his glasses.

“Nah,” Tommy says, grinning, “this is fine.”

It’s nice here. They do a bit of catching up with Tubbo, play with the dogs and whatnot. Wilbur breathes in and breathes out and lets himself feel alive, sitting here in this cozy little cabin with two boys he calls his brothers.

Once they’ve finished chatting for the night and Tubbo heads downstairs to work on some project, Wilbur takes to making hot chocolate for himself and Tommy. He melts the chocolate on the stove, makes it the way Phil used to do it, all cinnamonsweet and leaving you warm all the way down to the center of your chest. He passes a mug to Tommy, and gestures for the two of them to make their way out onto the porch.

It’s chilly out, but their coats do enough to protect them from the cold.

“You doin’ okay?” Wilbur asks, leaning on the railing of the porch.

Tommy groans, leaning his head back. “Why do you keep asking me that?”

“I’m allowed to check in on my little brother,” Wilbur teases. “I just wanna make sure you’re doing good, man.”

He huffs, ducking his head to sip at his hot chocolate. “Well, I’m okay.”

Wilbur hums, content with that. “Well… good.”

They stand there in contemplative quiet for a minute or two. Wilbur looks out at the sunset and the beginnings of stars in the sky. Tommy looks at Wilbur--he can see it out of the corner of his eye, but says nothing. He’ll give him the space and the time to work out whatever he wants to say.

Finally, the dam seems to break.

“... Wilbur,” he says, softly, “is it bad if I don’t forgive people for hurting me after they’ve apologized?”

Wilbur blinks, startled--he wasn’t expecting that sort of topic. “... no, I wouldn’t say so.”

Tommy falls silent, at that. Wilbur glances over, brow furrowing. “Why do you ask?”

His shoulders tense. “... I’ve just been thinking about it lately.”

Wilbur hums, looking out at the sunset again. “Well. You don’t owe anyone anything, man. You don’t owe Dream forgiveness, you don’t owe Techno, you don’t owe _me,_ you’re fine, dude. Take it at your own pace.”

He reaches out to ruffle his hair. Tommy huffs, swatting at his hand, though it’s good-natured, the tension bleeding from his shoulders.

“... okay,” he says, softly, and they leave it at that.

Wilbur takes their mugs in and lets Tommy settle on the couch with one of the dogs ( _Clementine_ , Wilbur’s mind supplies). It’s quiet and peaceful, and Wilbur would kill to keep it this way.

It seems, though, that he won’t have to.

Wilbur will forever be grateful for that.

Tommy dozes off on the couch, curled up with a dog and tangled in blankets. It’s the most endearing thing Wilbur thinks he’s ever seen. His expression is peaceful, shoulders relaxed, he looks calmer than he’s ever seen him. It’s sweet, and Wilbur adores him with every part of himself.

His sleep looks a little bit like peace, a little bit like healing.

That’s all Wilbur could ever want for him.

**Author's Note:**

> tysm for reading! if you liked what you saw, mayb check me out on tumblr, twitter, & twitch @ cacowhistle!


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